


Inside of You, In Spite of You

by HobbitSpaceCase



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy has a crush on Steve, Billy's bite from the trailer has consequences, Gay Billy Hargrove, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oneshot, Season 3 Speculation, Steve has no idea, ambiguous ending, but doesn't like sleeping alone, possessed Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-07 00:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitSpaceCase/pseuds/HobbitSpaceCase
Summary: Billy has a wound on his arm that won't heal, voices in his head telling him not to worry, and a crush on Steve Harrington that won't go away.  He tries to get help for the first two, but since when has Billy Hargrove ever been lucky enough to have things go his way?





	Inside of You, In Spite of You

Billy can’t sleep. 

It’s Friday night a week after the Fourth of July, and the air is still sticky and hot with that _fucking_ midwest humidity Billy can’t stand even though the sun set hours ago. Even the breeze through the Camaro’s open windows barely takes the sweat from his skin as he speeds down the dark back roads of Hawkins, Indiana. The night is dark with clouds blocking out even the light of the moon, and Billy’s headlights feel like the only light for miles. The shapes of trees laden down with green summer leaves spring up and fade away as he passes, like phantom limbs reaching for him from the darkness and only barely missing.

His left arm itches. He doesn’t want to look at it. Doesn’t want to see the angry red line of the rat bite that _still_ hasn’t healed, or the blackening veins around it.

The rat bite is the reason he can’t sleep. It’s the reason he’s out driving around this stifling little town instead of safe and sound in bed like the good son his dad’s always telling him to be. The rat bite, and the ugly voices that have been whispering in the back of his mind ever since he stumbled drunk into the woods by the quarry to puke his guts out and then returned to the Fourth of July party with a gift from the ugly little rodent that apparently thought a drunk, puking human might make a good meal. He thinks he might be going crazy, but he also thinks he’s been going crazy ever since his dad dragged him and their new _family_ out to this shitty little town in the middle of nowhere. An infected rat bite and voices in his head is just the shit icing on the shit cake of his life.

 _It’s okay,_ the voices whisper. _You’ll be fine._

The worst part, though, is the chunks of time that go missing, ever since it happened. Blank spots keep appearing in his memory, and they’ve been getting longer as the week goes by. He woke up with dirt on his hands and the smell of lake water in his nose the day after his coworker, Heather, disappeared, but he can’t for the life of him remember where he was. Maybe he really is going nuts.

He should go to the hospital. He hates his life, but he doesn’t actually want to die. Especially not because he let a stupid fuckin’ rat bite give him blood poisoning.

Instead of turning towards the outskirts of Hawkins, where a dingy little 24-hour ER rests up against cornfields and dirt roads, he turns back towards the main roads into town.

Hawkins is small, so small he feels like he’s suffocating with it, trapped in a tiny room with walls made of cornstalks and hicks closing in on him, but he still feels about a thousand miles from the dirty little house Neil owns when he takes in the homes that line the street he’s turned onto. They loom from the darkness of the road like giants in some kind of fairy tale, or like the mountains he misses so bad it puts a physical ache in his chest. They’ve got nothing on the ritzy places in Hollywood or the richer parts of LA, of course, but for Hawkins, Indiana, these houses scream wealth, the kind of money that Billy will never see in his life.

He stops on the street in front of one particular massive house, and doesn’t understand why at first. Memories bubble to the surface of his mind, and his arm itches again.

This is Steve Harrington’s house. He knows this because Tommy once pointed it out to him and Billy took a snapshot of the place in his mind to obsess over like some kind of dumb, crushing schoolgirl. This is also the house where some girl died the first time Harrington ever hooked up with that bitch, Wheeler, the house where King Steve started to lose his crown. The memory of a slimy, unidentifiable _creature_ stuffed into a fridge drifts through Billy’s mind, as well, a memory from a night when he nearly beat Harrington’s face to a pulp and had to walk home through the creepy forests of Hawkins in November because _someone_ stole his fucking car.

Hawkins in July is hardly any less creepy at night, he’s learning.

 _We should go,_ the voices whisper. _You aren’t welcome here._

Instead, he turns off the car and is walking up Harrington’s driveway before the actions even register in his conscious mind. Harrington has always had a dangerous pull on Billy. He knows what will happen if his dad ever finds out about the thoughts of Steve Harrington that fill Billy’s head with technicolor sin, the ones that paint themselves in bright colors in his mind when one hand grips his dick and his teeth bite down on the fingers of his other hand to stifle the noises dragged out by his fantasies. It’s not safe to make noise even when Neil’s out of the house and his music is turned up loud enough to drown his moans. Sometimes he thinks Neil can see the stain of it on him when he gets back, but that’s just his paranoia talking. If Neil could tell what he does alone in his room some nights, he knows what would happen.

Hell, he knows what will happen if _anyone_ finds out that Billy is a big fucking queer with a hard on for the dethroned Hawkins King.

He’s shaking when his fingers find the doorbell, his left hand clenched in a fist at his side to distract from the throbbing itch in his arm. He doesn’t know why the bite won’t heal, doesn’t know why he hasn’t gone to a hospital yet, doesn’t know why he can’t sleep without the voices screeching into a cacophony of horror behind his eyelids. He doesn’t know why he’s here at Steve Harrington’s house in the middle of the night, either, but he hasn’t turned back yet. He’s terrified of a lot of things these days, and lately it’s been getting _so hard_ to keep a handle on any of them at all.

The door opens just as he’s thinking about leaving, running away from this stupid idea and getting home before Neil notices he’s gone. Then Steve is standing in the doorway, outlined by the soft yellow lights emanating from further inside, and Billy’s feet stick to the concrete like they’ve been bolted down. Steve’s hair is a mess, thick brown tufts sticking up in every direction, and he blinks at the sight in front of him from behind a few strands that have fallen over his eyes. He’s in soft looking flannel pajamas with the shirt on backwards like maybe he threw it on in a rush when the doorbell range.

Billy wants so badly to touch him that it’s a struggle to keep his hands at his side. Steve looks solid and _real_ , and Billy crushes down any more thoughts about how _good_ he looks like this, sleep-rumpled and soft.

“Hargrove?” Steve asks, confusion and residual sleepiness mingling thick in his voice. He squints and frowns. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

That’s a good fucking question, Billy thinks. His mouth opens of its own accord and finds an answer anyway. “There’s weird shit going on in Hawkins,” he says, and accusation fills his shivering voice, “and you know something about it.” It’s not a question. Steve doesn’t answer. He just flinches in the doorway while his eyes dart around Billy, searching for something that he doesn’t find. When his wide brown gaze settles back on Billy, he’s confronted with the ugly mark that stains Billy’s arm.

“Something fucking bit me, and it won’t fucking heal, and I _know_ it has something to do with the weird shit you know about, Harrington,” Billy all but snarls. There’s fear clawing up his throat as he speaks, and the voices are tripping over themselves to tell him what a bad idea this is. He almost laughs. He doesn’t need extra voices in his head to tell him how this must look.

“Jesus,” Harrington says, staring at the ugly patch of red and black that mars otherwise smooth, tan skin. “Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?” His eyes are wide and his voice high with shock, but there are bags under those brown eyes and the question feels more rote than intentional.

Billy has asked himself the same question more than once this past week, though.

“I think I should be where someone knows what the hell is going on,” Billy says, but he looks at Steve and the warm lights inside his house and thinks that’s not what he really wants at all. There’s a different list running through his head, a list that says safety and warmth and Steve Harrington and a whole host of things he doesn’t deserve and never gets. Steve has a look on his face that Billy knows, even if he doesn’t really know Steve Harrington. It’s the look that authority figures liked to wear around Billy back in California, the sort of look that says he’s about to be told to fuck off and stop wasting their time.

 _Go home,_ his mind says. _You don’t belong here. This was a bad idea. Go home._

Billy’s arm itches so badly he can hardly stand it. The black of the night at his back feels like the open maw of a creature he hasn’t yet seen waiting to swallow him whole, and Steve is going to shut the door and block out the only light he’s managed to find in this town. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” he blurts instead of _I’m scared_ or _I don’t want to be alone_ or _I’m so fucking tired of being lost and hurt and dragged around by things that are bigger and stronger than me._ Steve is obviously startled, hesitates with his own mouth open and one hand on the door. “Look, man,” Billy says, trying and failing to stop his voice from shaking and his breath from coming too fast, “I just want to figure out what the hell is going on. Something is fucking happening to me and I’m freaked out, okay, and I wasn’t going to go to a bunch of fucking kids so you’re the only other option I’ve got.” It’s too much, to honest, for Billy’s comfort, but all he knows is that he can’t let Steve close that door. 

There’s something waiting to consume him out there in the night. He doesn’t know what it is, but he can feel its presence like a cold, slimy breath on the back of his neck.

Steve still hesitates, but Billy must look even more pathetic than he feels. “Alright,” Steve finally says. He reaches out to touch Billy’s left arm, and Billy flinches so hard he almost knocks himself over from the force of it.

“Don’t,” he grits out while Steve stares at him. “Don’t touch it.”

Steve nods. “I won’t,” he says, sincere. “Do you want to come inside?”

Billy nods, the movement jerky and painful from how tense he is, and tries to follow Steve into the warm glow of his home. “Um,” Steve says, awkward and unsure, when Billy’s feet don’t move.

 _Go home,_ his mind says again.

 _Fuck you,_ Billy says right back. _That’s_ not _my home._

The first step feels like he’s dragging his feet out of wet concrete. He feels heavy and off kilter, nearly stumbles in the doorway and feels his skin light up like a Fourth of July sparkler where Steve catches him.

“You okay, man?” Steve asks. His hands are still touching Billy, one on his right arm and the other braced around his waist. Billy shakes his head in the negative, unable to form the snarky reply he wants between the warring desires to lean further into Steve or to bolt and pretend this never happened. “Okay,” Steve says to fill the silence. “Okay. Let’s just get you inside, and then I can call someone who might be able to help.”

That gets words out of Billy, words torn from him in desperation that feels strangely foreign when desperation is normally so familiar. “Don’t,” he begs, and clings closer to Steve. “Not tonight. Please. I can’t fucking handle more shit tonight. Just, tomorrow, yeah? You can call more people tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow,_ the voices clamor in agreement, but Billy barely hears them over the pounding of his heart.

Steve’s eyes are dark in the sudden brightness of his home. He watches Billy carefully, and Billy tries to stand a little straighter, tries to project a little more confidence he doesn’t feel. He’s still leaning on Steve, though, still sinking into the comforting weight of the other guy’s arms. His skin feels hot and shivers run up his spine, and he thinks he never wants Steve to stop touching him.

 _You don’t want anyone else to see this,_ the voices whisper. For once, Billy agrees with them.

“Okay,” Steve finally says. It’s clear he doesn’t like it, the hesitation is obvious in his voice, but he takes Billy further into the house and doesn’t let go of him anyway. Billy clings right back with his right arm and feels something like safety settle over him. Alone with Steve in this ridiculous house, with the warm yellow lights and the AC chasing away the sticky darkness of the night, he lets himself sag against the boy that fills his dreams and for once, the voices go quiet.

Steve hesitates by the stairs, eyes flickering between Billy, the living room, and the dark landing above them. “Um,” he says, eloquent as ever, “where do you want to sleep?”

“Not alone,” Billy replies. He’s already thrown his dignity out the window. May as well take advantage of not having any left while he can.

Steve glances once more at the living room before turning away. “Yeah,” he says, “okay. Not alone I can do.” Billy imagines there’s something like relief in Steve’s voice, but that’s probably be the craziest thought he’s had all night. Steve Harrington would hardly be relieved at being asked to share a room with the guy who once beat his face in, only to show up on his doorstep months later rambling nonsensical bullshit and acting like a pussy over a scratch.

It feels like it takes an eternity to navigate the stairs. Every step feels like Billy’s dragging lead weights on his feet, and only Steve’s solid presence at his side keeps him from toppling over and tumbling right back down. When they finally reach the top, Billy is panting like he’s just run a marathon, and his arm itches worse than ever. He resists scratching at it, instead tightens his grip on the soft fabric of Steve’s shirt till he can feel his knuckles turning white with the strain and he thinks that he might tear it.

“Are you sure you don’t need a hospital?” Steve asks. The concern in his eyes is probably a trick of the light, but it makes Billy’s heart thump painfully in his chest anyway.

“Right now I just need to fucking sleep,” Billy mumbles. His mouth feels full of cotton, his tongue barely able to form the words around the imaginary obstruction. “I’ll feel better in the morning when I get some fucking answers,” he adds. The parts of his body that are pressed against Steve burn with the contact even through layers of clothing. All Billy wants to do is sink into that heat and stay there, but he clamps his mouth shut and glares forward instead.

“Right,” Steve says. He’s clearly unconvinced, but he keeps walking towards an open doorway at the end of the hallway. Inside is one of the most depressing bedrooms that Billy has ever seen. The wallpaper is hideous, a plaid pattern that hurts his eyes to look at.

“Do your parents hate all their guests?” he asks, proud that the snark still comes through in his voice even with how breathless he feels.

Steve turns a confused look on him. “What?” he asks, just as Billy notices the notebooks spread across the desk and the trash can full of torn up letters. The bed is also clearly recently slept in, on closer inspection, and even in the state he’s in he only barely holds back a surprised snort of laughter.

“Don’t tell me this your room?” he asks incredulously. “How do you live with this wallpaper without going insane?”

Steve shrugs, his discomfort clear in the set of his shoulders and the darting of his eyes. “My parents like it,” he says, and there’s something small and defensive in his voice that resonates in Billy’s chest. “My dad picked it out to make mom happy, and I didn’t care enough to fight about it.”

“Sorry you’re stuck with it,” Billy says, when the silence stretches too long for comfort. As apologies go it’s pretty pathetic, but Steve grins at him anyway.

“If you want to go back downstairs, the couch is still open.”

Billy would kick him if he weren’t so tired. “Nah,” he says, doing his best to inject some bravado into his voice, “I’ll survive.”

He misses a few things in between blinks, then. He registers Steve helping him get his shoes off, but Steve’s following words pass Billy by without being heard. Billy blinks a few more times, and the next thing he knows he’s lying on top of the luxuriously soft comforter on Steve’s bed. Steve is under the covers next to him, his eyes big and dark and shining from a strip of moonlight peeking out from behind the clouds.

“We’re going to take care of this shit in the morning, yeah?” Steve says, when he notices Billy’s eyes on him.

“Yeah,” Billy slurs, mouth and eyes both heavy with sleep. “Yeah, pretty boy. We’ll figure this out in the morning.” His limbs are leaden, weighed down with exhaustion, and his mind is foggy. He barely notices himself slipping into sleep, words trailing off on a yawn. His arm still itches, but the feeling is muted, like it’s coming through a load of the good painkillers he got that one time he broke his arm at twelve, just after his mom had died. His dad had shouted at him a lot, over the following days, but the painkillers had dulled everything to a pleasant fog.

Even the voices in his mind have been quiet, for once. He falls asleep with Steve watching over him, and for the first time since his mom died, he feels safe.

————————————————————

Steve wakes too early in the morning to an empty bed and a note on his nightstand. The note is hastily scrawled, but he can still recognize the handwriting from sitting next to Billy for a whole semester of English last spring.

_Steve,_

_Sorry about last night. You were right; I did need a hospital. I don’t know what was going through my head, but I’ve gone to see an actual doctor this morning. You don’t need to worry about me._

There’s no more to the note, not even a signature. Steve tosses the scrap of paper to the side and huffs in annoyance when it takes forever to float gently to the ground. Fucking Billy Hargrove. He’ll call Hopper later, just in case Billy’s wound really does have anything to do with the Upside Down, but first he needs more sleep. The sun is only barely peeking over the horizon, and Steve hasn’t slept a full night through in a long time.

Whatever was up with Billy Hargrove could wait.

—————————————————————

Across town, Billy rolls over in his bed and wakes to the sound of his dad stomping down the hallway. He groans and shoves his face into his pillow, wondering why he feels so fucking tired. It feels like he’d been up half the night, but he knows that isn't true. Neil had been in a shitty mood the previous night, and Billy had gone to bed at a perfectly reasonable hour like the good son he rarely is. At least his arm doesn't feel so bad this morning.

 _It’s okay,_ a voice whispers in his mind, soft and small and sharp like rat feet skittering across the inside of his skull. _Everything’s going to be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did blatantly steal a song title for the title of my fic. If you haven't heard the song, you should. It gives me lots of possessed!Billy feels and feels rather appropriate for what we know so far of season 3.


End file.
